


Perfect

by micehell



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, a touch of holiday smarm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-04
Updated: 2008-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:59:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He prided himself on handling whatever various aliens, mid-level bureaucrats, utilities billing agents, or wayward coworkers threw at him.  Well, and on looking far better in a suit than he would have in spandex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

**Perfect** adj. _Exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose_.  
 **Perfect** v. _To bring to completion. To improve._

~*~

He hadn't started out this way. He'd been a loser in the early days, aimless and rootless. Then a chance meeting, and a chance to be part of something larger than just getting by, had led to Torchwood. It wasn't an exciting recruitment in the least, nothing of Gwen's grand entrance, but it had changed his life, as, irrevocably, it changed all their lives.

In one way or another.

Joining Torchwood had been the best decision he'd ever made, though. Beyond any importance of the job, or even any of the supposed glamour of it, it had taught him something no one else had ever been able to get him to see -- what he was good for.

And, sure, most young men would be more attracted to the role of Batman than Alfred, but he'd always known that larger-than-life hero wasn't his role. It had just taken Torchwood to show him the joys of being the one that kept the larger-than-life figures from having to deal with life itself. The one that kept the Batmobile in fuel, and the bills paid so that the Batcave was lit.

It turned out he was good at it. Better than good, even, and he prided himself on handling whatever various aliens, mid-level bureaucrats, utilities billing agents, or wayward coworkers threw at him. Well, and on looking far better in a suit than he would have in spandex.

It was the talent that let him arrange even holidays perfectly, like something out of Currier and Ives.

Perfect food; potted shrimp, roasted goose garnished with red currant jelly and bread sauce, Brussels sprouts with chestnuts, new potatoes with chives, plum pudding (and Christmas snappers beside every plate, because he'd always liked them as a child). Not a note out of place, or a single stain on the cloth, like he'd Photoshopped real life. (He hadn't. He wasn't secretly a fembot nor had he made a pact with Satan, either, or any of the thousand other possibilities… someone had teased him with before.)

Perfect weather; crisp and clean, as if pollution were on holiday as well. There was the lightest fall of snow, white and fresh, to accent the city's beauty, and camouflage her flaws. (And what Jack didn't know about them still sometimes taking alien tech out of the hub wouldn't hurt him. Not this time.)

Perfect guests; Jack's eyes wide with startled pleasure as the Doctor shook his hand, his new companion trading stories and laughs with Martha while her fiancé looked on. (He just hoped that Jack never found out about the snaps that had been Martha's price for getting the Doctor there. Not that they hadn't been very nice snaps, but if Jack knew that someone else besides the two of them had seen them, he'd probably want them posted all over the web as well, maybe even along the street in front of the tourist office, so it was best to keep that on the quiet.)

Perfect in every way. Except for those that were missing. No matter how good he was, he hadn't been able to arrange for Tosh and Owen to be at the table with them.

And yet there they'd been all the same.

He didn't mean in spirit, or even in Spirit (though it was certainly the right time of year for that). He meant there. Tosh in one of the empty chairs he _hadn't_ placed at the table, eyes wide with wonder at the perfect food (though she did wrinkle her nose at the lack of vegetarian friendly dishes), the perfect weather, the perfect guests. Owen in the other empty chair, good-naturedly (or as good-natured as Owen could ever get, holidays notwithstanding) cursing not being able to eat (being mostly dead and all) when there was so much non-vegetarian food all around.

Gwen had laughed, and Rhys had commiserated (though more with Tosh, since meat was something of a sore point with him nowadays), and the Doctor told tales of other holiday celebrations he'd seen throughout time and history. His companion had rolled her eyes at him and turned back to Martha, only to find her and _her_ companion holding hands and smiling at each other, at which point there had been more eyerolling and a put-upon sigh.

Ianto sat there, amidst the perfection he had created, and the part he hadn't, and wondered if he'd gone insane and had just not noticed yet.

By the time the others left, Gwen and Rhys heading home, Martha and her fiancé to their hotel, and the Doctor and his companion to whenever and wherever they were going next, he was still undecided about the insanity issue, but he had at least figured out what had happened.

Jack looked at him, the first direct look he'd given all evening, and then flipped a switch on his wriststrap, holding Ianto's eyes as a light flared, leaving them alone again.

He could have asked Jack why, but he waited for Jack to tell him instead.

"Gwen… well, all of them really, except maybe the Doctor, will just remember having a good time. It won't hurt them, and it might give Gwen a last happy… memory, of a sort."

"And me?"

Jack smiled ruefully. "It was supposed to work on you, too."

That plan apparently foiled by another talent that Ianto had; the inability to let go. He'd left those two empty chairs in the conference room. (Not at the table, his courage deserting him there. No Tosh to help him over his fear this time, no Owen to ridicule him for it.) But he'd never been good at letting go. Cyberman girlfriends, dead mates, Jack -- Ianto needed to be beaten over the head (or thrown clear across a room) before his grip on them could be pried off. (By others, always by others.)

"Was it supposed to work on you, too?"

Jack didn't answer, didn't need to, all his years of experience at loss never having taught him how to do it well. He took Ianto in his arms, just holding on.

But quiet and Jack were uneasy partners at best, and he started to sing, jazzy renditions of traditional carols. (Flowing from one to another in a mix that was as chaotic as Jack.) He swayed to his beat, taking Ianto with him, dancing him around the Hub. (Never where Lisa had died (or Ianto for that matter). Never where Tosh had.) The lights were dim, and Jack's voice was soft (though Myfanwy's attempt to eat the snappers was a little jarring), and their ghosts were silent when Jack finally led him to bed.

/story


End file.
